


In Careful Hands

by mightymads



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, K/S Advent Calendar, M/M, Missing scenes for The Undiscovered Country, Shower Sex, Spock and Jim support each other through the bond, Spock is beside himself with worry when Jim and Bones are in Klingon prison, Telepathy, making up after the fall out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 15:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: During a romantic Christmas dinner Spock breaks the news for the first time: he is assigned to start peace talks with Klingons. In a month, Jim finds himself dragged into the negotiations against his will and he’s furious. But still, even hating Klingons after the loss of his son, Jim agrees to participate because he loves Spock too much to let him go alone on a dangerous mission.Written forK/S Advent Calendar 2017





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> > Love is not struggle. Love is love. You can have arguments and love each other. You can go through hard times and love each other. If you can find a relationship where it’s easy to give it and get it, then a lot of that stuff takes care of itself.
>> 
>> Leonard Nimoy

Amanda sent a box of wonderful _d’mallu_ , each glossy, deep green with a brownish tinge on the sides—a sure sign that they’re ripe, just right for Spock’s favorite _c’torr_ , Vulcan traditional stew. Spock, of course, would never admit having preferences in food unless it’s completely unsuitable for his palate, but his mother and husband know better. Dean, Frank and Co in the playlist, Jim hums along, chopping the succulent vegetables grown with care and love in Amanda’s garden. The stove starts to ping which means water in the saucepan reached the boiling point, good. The stew will be ready by Spock’s return.

 _Oh, the weather outside is frightful_  
_But the fire is so delightful_  
_And since we've no place to go_  
_Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow_

In San Fran snow is unlikely. Rain is hammering on the windowpanes instead and has no intention to stop. Together with the chilly wind from the bay it’s downright nasty for a Human, let alone a Vulcan, no matter how stoic he is. Jim is so glad that at least HQ had the decency not to bother them today. They planned to spend the whole day at home, no parties, no guests, just two of them at ease. He reaches out mentally—Spock’s side of the bond emanates diligence and concentration, he’s still immersed in work.

 _Damn these shameless diplomats, calling you off on the Christmas Eve_ , Jim sighs.

 _Unfortunately, the matter is urgent,_ comes through the bond at once. _I shall be back in approximately one hour thirty-five minutes._

 _Don’t even think about going on foot in such weather,_ Jim frowns, gazing into the window _. Take an aircar._

 _I assure you, my Jim, I don’t wish to be exposed to the elements longer than necessary,_ the bond ripples with amusement.

 _Will hold you to that, Mister,_ Jim snorts and pushes the chopped _d’mallu_ off the cutting board into the saucepan.

Two hours fifteen minutes later Jim is stirring the simmering mulled vine. The scent of spices mixes with the aroma of apples, caramel, and bakery—he made an apple pie to while away the time. Spock is deep in thought, there’s underlying fatigue and yearning for Jim’s closeness bleeding through. Jim gives him a mental caress, but doesn’t distract him otherwise. The bond fills with Spock’s tenderness that spreads in Jim’s chest with every heartbeat and tingles in his fingertips. Spock’s presence gets stronger, stronger, stronger still... Grinning, Jim switches off the stove and heads to the hall just as the lock clicks and the door swishes open. Spock walks in, pushing back his hood; raindrops are streaming down his coat of Vulcan design. His tired gaze lights up and a small smile touches his lips.

“Let me,” Jim helps him out of the coat and hangs it on the rack to dry. “Raining cats and dogs, eh?”

“I observed no animals neither during the drive nor as I was crossing the yard,” Spock says, taking off his boots and stepping into soft shoes.

“Smartass,” Jim huffs a laugh. “Come, _c’torr_ is warm thanks to the fancy kitchenware Uhura gave us.”

Spock slips his hands around Jim’s waist. When they first bonded Jim was the one to initiate hugs, being a touchy-feely guy that he is. Throughout the years it became natural for Spock to seek solace of his mate’s touch, and Jim is happy to give him comfort after a long day.

“You smell good,” Spock nuzzles Jim’s hair, then kisses the shell of Jim’s ear, his cheek, his lips. The bond is smoldering with hunger, and not only for food.

“Can’t decide what to have first, me or dinner?” Jim whispers, palming the curve of Spock’s butt.

“I’m merely stating a fact,” Spock raises an eyebrow, but he can’t help smiling.

 

Flames flicker in the fireplace, shadows dancing in the semidarkness. Spock’s gaze is heavy-lidded with pleasure as he eats _c’torr_ and sips mulled vine. There’s no need to keep his posture ramrod straight in his home robes, so he allowed himself to slouch in the armchair a little. Soon they have a twenty-year anniversary of their bonding, yet Jim can’t have enough of this sight every time they are alone.

“The whole day I’ve been wishing to be by your side,” Spock runs two extended fingers down Jim’s wrist.

“What on earth did the Embassy want from you?” Jim squeezes Spock’s hand.

“The situation on Qo’noS is so dire that Klingons cannot conceal the magnitude of the disaster any longer. They cannot cope in the present conditions, so today Chancellor Gorkon proposed negotiations for disarmament.”

“Knowing Klingons, they probably want us to give up all our defenses and leave the Neutral Zone. They’ve blown themselves up and are in no position to dictate, but they have the gall to ask.”

“Gorkon indeed proposed demilitarization of the Neural Zone,” Spock nods. “It means that Klingons shall dismantle their outposts as well.”

“Because they can’t afford to maintain them,” Jim says grimly. “They couldn’t force the Federation out of the sector in their heyday, and now they appeal for our compassion. Very clever, although not quite in line with their so called warrior honor.”

“Jim...” Spock covers Jim’s hand with his, the bond suffused with deep sorrow. “The loss of David is devastating. It happened as a result of a longstanding feud, and now there is a chance to put an end to that feud.”

“Or fall for a Klingon trick,” Jim mutters. “Okay, what does it all have to do with you?”

“Due to my previous encounters with Klingons in the line of duty, especially on the occasion when the Organian Peace Treaty was introduced, my father requested me to be Federation Special Envoy in the upcoming contact,” Spock replies carefully.

“Well, congratulations,” Jim frees his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Spock bites his lip. Somehow, feeling that he’s sad and upset and hates to be the reason of Jim’s distress doesn’t help. Usually, if they have a disagreement, sensing each other’s emotional state urges them to seek a compromise. This time, however, the bond communicates Spock’s determination.

“Spock, please, could you reconsider?” Jim looks into Spock’s eyes after a few moments of silence. “It smells like a trap light-years away.”

“Let’s postpone this conversation for later, shall we?” Spock says gently. “Why don’t we spend this evening as we planned, in joy and leisure?”

“Yeah...” Jim takes an effort to get himself together. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s Christmas. I, uh, have something for you.”

Jim rises from the table and brings Spock a large parcel from the bedroom closet. Spock’s expression is priceless when he unwraps the present—exactly what Jim was hoping for.

“A pillow?” Spock knits his brow, confusion seeping through the bond.

“A meditation pillow,” Jim says with a gleeful grin. “I know that Vulcans have a thing for kneeling on a piece of polished granite while meditating, but that’s not good for your joints. Also, Earth meditation practices suggest that you take a comfortable position for best results. Since you’re half-Human, you could cut yourself some slack occasionally.”

“Your reasoning is excellent,” Spock says, his long fingers stroking the soft velour.

“I’m honored, _adun t’nash-veh_ ,” Jim chuckles. “The exact shade and texture of the old command gold, amazing, isn’t it? Couldn’t pass it by. So next time you sit in _loshirak_ , just imagine it’s me hugging your backside.”

“That will ruin the meditation,” Spock gives him a pointed look, then lowers the pillow on the couch and goes to his study.

He returns with a decorative bag and hands it to Jim. Jim puts on his glasses before taking out the contents of the bag: a red woolen vest with intricate brown patterns.

“Sehlat wool,” Jim reads the Vulcan script on the label. “Seriously? They still make that?”

“There are traditional craftsmen,” Spock says solemnly. “You tend to get uncomfortable when you have to visit colder parts of the ship. Since thermals like mine would be excessive for you, please wear it on such occasions.”

The vest is thin but very warm to the touch, and tailored in a way it won’t be noticeable under the uniform jacket. There are often moments when Jim is gobsmacked by how thoughtful his husband is.

“Aye, Captain,” Jim replies, his voice wavering, and kisses him.

_One month later_

The lesson is already over, but the auditorium is still packed. Bright-eyed, faces alight with enthusiasm, cadets are discussing the seminar’s topic in hushed tones and exchanging their notes. It seems like the goal is achieved: the seminar provided them with some food for thought.

“Sir, one more question,” Cadet Lanski raises her hand.

“Go ahead,” Jim nods.

“You said compassion was important for command. But what if it compromises safety of surrounding people? Take the occasion with Charlie Evans for example. Why did you ask Thasians for him, despite all he had done? He had hurt your crew and destroyed the Antares. Wouldn’t it be dangerous to integrate a person like him into the society, even minus his superpowers?” Lanski asks as other cadets reach out with their PADDs to record every word.

“I see you are very well-versed in those events,” Jim smiles, holding Lanski’s challenging gaze. “Charlie was willing to change. Under a proper guidance, why not give him a chance? It’s a human thing to do. You’ve got to stay human, especially when much depends on you as a leader.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lanski smiles back.

“Alright, that’s all for today, folks!” Jim announces, stepping down from the dais. “Sorry, can’t be late for my next appointment.”

You don’t get late for a top secret meeting which was arranged out of the blue. Jim exits the Gagarin Hall and takes a shuttle to HQ. The invitation came in the middle of the seminar, the list of attendees including the veteran Enterprise bridge crew, except for Captain Sulu who is busy patrolling the Neutral Zone on his own ship. If something is wrong, Spock would’ve said, right? Lately he abandoned teaching because of his moonlighting in diplomacy. He did bring up the Klingon situation several times, and it always revolved around appeasing those bastards. There’s no way in hell Jim would agree.

 _Why are we gathered so urgently?_ Jim ventures a message to Spock’s preoccupied mind.

 _The Embassy suggests a new level of negotiations_ , Spock replies in a few seconds. _I shall share the details at the meeting. See you there._

A Red Alert blares at the back of Jim’s head, but he doesn’t press on. Their final mission should be no more than a lap of honor: a brief exploration assignment, that’s all. Chekov is soon to be transferred to another ship, Uhura plans to be a full-time instructor at the Academy, Scotty is in anticipation of yachting, Bones will return to his practice in Georgia, and Spock—Spock collaborates with his father, who would’ve thought.

 

“How could you vouch for me?” Jim demands in disbelief. “That’s... arrogant presumption.”

The whole meeting he just couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was surreal, yet oddly familiar. Once, during that farce of a court martial in orbit of Talos IV, Spock also made a puppet out of him, and all Jim could do was to flail and obey while Spock was pulling at the strings. Back then Jim was floored by the depth of Spock’s devotion to Captain Pike, but now... Spock gazes at him calmly, as if nothing happened, the cool sea of equanimity lapping at Jim’s boiling indignation.

“My father requested that I open negotia—”

“I know your father’s the Vulcan Ambassador for heaven’s sake, but you know how I feel about this,” Jim snaps. “They’re animals!”

“Jim, there is a historic opportunity here,” Spock tries that soothing tone, like he did before.

“Don’t believe them! Don’t trust them!” Jim can’t help raising his voice.

Why, why wouldn’t Spock see something so obvious? He chooses not to, because of a diplomatic ambition! Jim’s anger devours the calm waves, not extinguished but incensed by them, so the tide recedes.

“They’re dying,” Spock implores as he reaches out again, this time for Jim’s humanity.

“Let them die!” Jim hisses.

Spock stares at him, appalled.

“Has it occurred to you that this crew is due to stand down in three months?” Jim continues, containing himself. “We’ve done our bit for King and Country. You should have trusted me.”

Spock’s lips press into a thin line. God, he’s so stubborn, always has been. If he made up his mind, it’s virtually impossible to persuade him.

_Don’t you trust my judgment at all, Spock?_

_Jim..._

_Let’s finish this at home_ , Jim turns on his heel and heads out. It will be rad if someone hears them argue here, in a public place. Spock follows a few steps behind, giving Jim space on the mental plane as well. Although they sit next to each other in the aircar on the way home, it seems like they’re on different planets.

“Jim, I regret that my measures had to be so drastic,” Spock says softly when they are in the privacy of their apartment. “But time is of the essence, and you repeatedly rejected my reasoning.”

“Yeah, for a whole month. Was that not an option?” Jim replies in kind. Keeping up appearances might work with any other person; the downside of such bond as theirs is that hiding strong emotions is impossible.

“You are biased, Jim, albeit the cause is sufficient,” Spock heaves a heavy sigh. “It is immensely difficult, but could you at least try to accept their reaching? Give them a chance.”

“Oh don’t you quote Surak to me,” Jim scowls. “You schemed behind my back!”

“Schemed?” Spock repeats, hurt and anger flaring up in him too. “Your choice of words is uncalled for.”

“Really?” Jim can’t stand still anymore and starts pacing. “One thing is that you have a dialogue with them, fine. But dragging me into this without even asking... hell, no, you were perfectly aware of my opinion, and yet decided to have it your way. Let Jim be mad for a while, he’ll come around eventually.”

“I did not expect such a violent reaction,” Spock says, his voice hollow.

“And what did you expect?” Jim stops in his tracks. “Spock, they murdered my son when he was at their mercy. They don’t have an ounce of decency, how can they ever be trusted?”

“How can we arrive at conclusions if we don’t try?” Spock persists.

“Try away,” Jim waves his hand, “but I don’t want to participate in it. Find someone else to lead this mission or do it yourself.”

“You are crucial for the success of this undertaking. As Commander-in-Chief pointed out, your authority reduces the probability of provocations.”

“So I still have no say in this, huh?”

Spock doesn’t answer. Jim unclasps the brooch of his jacket, inhales and exhales, then walks to the bar and pours himself a drink. A gulp of scotch burns pleasantly in his throat, but Jim is not really in the mood. He sets the glass down. They have never quarreled to this extent since their bonding. It became rather clear early on that feeling the pain you inflicted on your beloved was unbearable.

“I grieve with thee, Jim,” Spock says at last.

“Yet you won’t cancel this escort stunt,” Jim mutters, not looking at him.

 

The rest of the evening was spent in preparations. Silently, Spock gave Jim PADDs with the ship’s statistics, procurement data, shift rosters and so on. Silently, Jim checked and signed. Personnel are already returning to the ship, and tomorrow, as soon as the senior officers are delivered onboard, the Enterprise departs. There’s no way to bow out of it, it’s like a sentence not subject to appeal.

Jim has been lying in bed for an hour and a half, his mind racing, unable to drift off. It’s 0115. Candlelight glow seeps from under the door of Spock’s study. The bond tells that Spock is implementing mental relaxation techniques in vain—Jim’s words sting him deeply, and Jim’s unhappiness is heavy in his chest. Jim puts his palm over his face. Give them a chance. No, Klingons are not Charlie, this is different. Bringing them to their knees, as Cartwright suggested, would serve them right. But... what if it would equate to willful negligence? A silent agreement to genocide? Let them die. God, it was rage talking. Shiver runs down Jim’s spine. Anyway, accusing Spock of scheming was overboard.

“Dammit,” Jim groans, sitting up.

He goes to the study and opens the door without knocking. Sure enough, Spock is kneeling on the meditation stone, _asenoi_ in front of him.

“Spock, come to bed,” Jim says quietly.

“My session is in progress,” Spock replies.

“It’s useless, though, isn’t it,” Jim shakes his head. “I can sleep on the couch and you can shield if you’re so sensitive that I’m angry. But you need some sleep too, we have a hard day tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Spock looks up at him and extinguishes the _asenoi_. _Please, don’t relocate if you don’t want to._

They return to bed in the darkness and settle down. This is so much better.

“I’ve said horrible things to you, I’m sorry,” Jim touches Spock’s arm.

“Your anger was well-grounded,” Spock whispers, his remorse filling the bond as he caresses Jim’s hand. “I did manipulate you.”

“A lot of shit can go wrong on this mission,” Jim sighs. “And while I don’t agree with its purpose, if I stayed on Earth, and something happened to you because I wasn’t there for you, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adun t’nash-veh – my husband 
> 
> SPOCK: As I turned and my eyes beheld you, I displayed emotion. I beg forgiveness.  
> SURAK: The cause was more than sufficient. Let us speak no further of it.  
> (The Savage Curtain)
> 
> Pulau na'vathular k'nuhk. Nar-tor pulaya s'au k'ka'es – k'el'rular tun-bosh.  
> Reach out to others courteously. Accept their reaching in the same way, with careful hands.  
> Surak


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone saw the scene of Spock mind-melding with Valeris, right? I dwell a little bit on the issue of consent or the lack of it, so perhaps it could be triggering. It’s in the very end of the chapter, just in case.

Icy wind pierces the uniform and would have frozen Jim to the core if it wasn’t for the wooly vest Spock gave him. Jim felt chilly because of the Romulan ale hangover and donned it, and now he’s so damn grateful. Instinctively, Jim wraps his arms around himself and huddles closer to Bones. Bones is shivering, his back hunched, snow sticking to his hair. There are about fifteen more prisoners and only two guards: white wasteland stretches all around, as far as the eye can see, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The guards are dressed from head to foot in thick furs, whereas the prisoners are as they were in the brig.

 _Jim, what is happening?_ Spock reaches out, alarmed.

 _We’ve beamed down to Rura Penthe,_ Jim starts shifting from foot to foot, but it doesn’t really help to get warmer.

 _I should be there instead of you_ , Spock’s ever present guilt becomes more intense.

 _You wouldn’t like the weather, hon_ , Jim replies as cheerfully as he can.

“Put on the coats,” one of the guards points at the pile of furs a few feet away.

“If you want to make it to the camp,” the other guard sneers.

A Klingon white hound with huge teeth—jackal mastiff—growls on the leash in the guard’s hand.

The prisoners rush to the pile, tripping and falling, shackles rattling. Everyone is pushing, kicking, biting each other to get more clothes in this bitter cold. The last shred of dignity for a chance of survival—the guards cackle. Jim manages to snatch a bundle of furs before being shoved off with such force he tumbles down. Bones cries out in pain and lands into the snow next Jim, clutching his own bundle. They crawl out of the fight to avoid being stomped on.

“You alright, Bones?” Jim brushes the snow off Bones’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” Bones spits blood from his split lip. “Enjoying the show, assholes.”

Jim just grits his teeth, getting to his feet and helping Bones up. They unwrap their trophies—tattered old coats full of holes, dirty boots and mittens, and some rags which might have been scarves a long time ago. These frozen clothes seem to steal the body heat instead of preserving it. Jim’s ears, nose, fingers are so numb he can barely feel them.

The guards guffaw while the fight comes to an end little by little: it’s too exhausting, especially on empty stomach. In the pre-trial detention facility Klingons gave no food.

“Now move!” the guard barks, gesturing with a disruptor rifle.

The other guard switches on a lantern and leads the way. The prisoners trudge after him in the darkening twilight as Rura Penthe’s three suns begin to set. Soon the temperature drops further, and the wind turns into a blizzard. It’s hard to see anything two steps ahead, snow clinging to the eyelashes, getting in the eyes, stabbing the face like a myriad of needles. Jim’s breath comes out as puffs of vapor and crystalizes as ice on the stubble around his mouth. Half-blind, Jim wades knee-deep in the snow, shackles heavy on his ankles. Somebody collapses to the right from him and doesn’t rise, but the guards pay no heed.

“Hurry up, you scum,” the guard at the end of the line shouts, “or I’ll unleash the hound!”

His shrill voice is drowned in a peal of thunder. For a split second a red flash illuminates the sky.

“Ion storm,” Bones pants, dragging his feet.

“No wonder they’re nervous,” Jim grabs him by the arm to be sure Bones won’t fall.

If we don’t reach the camp before the storm is in full force, we’re finished. His jaw set, Jim walks on, pushing away fatigue and hunger from his consciousness. Suddenly a surge of energy fills the bond—it gives him strength and clears his head, helps to focus. _Spock_.

The white wilderness is the same for miles and miles and miles. In the raging snowstorm tracks disappear within a few seconds, the stars are hidden behind the thick layer of clouds, it’s difficult to even discern the sky from the ground. Peals of thunder are deafening, ion flashes bright in the deepening darkness. Jim’s shabby coat is filled with snow, but he ignores the numbness in his arms and legs, zeroed in on the guard’s lantern as he ploughs on. Bones breathes heavily, staggering along the path made by fellow prisoners walking in front of them.

The guards spur them on with harsh shouts. Jim lost sense of time, it’s an endless trudge until your legs give out and the storm devours you. Only Spock’s presence in his mind keeps up his spirit, comforts him. Spock does everything to expose the conspiracy. The Enterprise will come for them.

 

Spock exhales, emerging from a light trance. His vitality will be shared with Jim constantly: the bond between _t’hylara_ can function as a lifeline—it saved them both many times. _It’s the least I can do for you, my Jim. You were right, I shouldn’t have forced you into this. You should have stayed on Earth._

Spock opens his eyes. The observation deck is quiet, he is alone here. The opposite armchair—Jim’s place—is empty, and so is the 3D chess set. A tremendous strain Jim is under reverberates through the bond, an ever present reminder of Spock’s mistake. It must be even harder for Doctor McCoy who doesn’t have a lifeline. Starting this endeavor, Spock didn’t consider such repercussions. Now his beloved and a dearest friend are paying for his failure.

The investigation is underway, it’s necessary to wait for the first results to make next moves, but it’s agonizing—Jim and Doctor McCoy are in a grave danger every second. Who is behind the Chancellor’s murder? For whose benefit? Spock rises from the armchair, walks to the antique ship’s wheel and puts his hand on one of the handles. Jim was enchanted by it when he found it on a flea market not far away from their apartment in San Francisco. The ship’s controls—

“Sir?” Valeris’s voice interrupts his ruminations.

Spock turns. His best student, a full-blooded Vulcan whose decision-making is not marred by doubts or insecurities. Years ago, as a youth, Spock would have given a lot to be like this. Indeed, he almost gave up a part of himself to be like this, but his Human friends and his Jim taught him to cherish it. Valeris’s purely logical perspective is in a way one-sided. Hopefully, her time on the Enterprise will broaden it.

“You requested a status report,” Valeris says, her composure flawless as always. “Nothing was found on the lower decks.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Please continue the search,” Spock replies, suppressing an inclination to sigh.

“Yes, sir.”

For some reason, Valeris lingers. Perhaps, after a sleepless night Spock’s own dispassionate mask slipped for a moment.

“The lot of your bondmate and Doctor McCoy is grievous,” Valeris adds softly.

What was meant to be an expression of sympathy sounds rather taunting, as if all current efforts are in vain.

“As my bondmate says, nobody’s given up yet,” Spock clasps his hands behind his back. “Dismissed.”

Valeris inclines her head and leaves.

“There must be something I have missed,” Spock murmurs aloud.

He goes to the coffee table, picks up his PADD and starts flipping through his notes. That’s it, the subroutine. Spock re-reads the coding which modified the databanks, making it appear that the Enterprise attacked Gorkon’s ship. The style is impersonal, of course, but the way of thinking... yes, it seems familiar.

 

The stench of feces, sweat, burned fuel, and artificial protein is oppressive. Jim and Bones are standing in a long line to an ancient synthesizer on the far end of the prison courtyard. The guards are cracking whips to keep the line in order while more guards observe the yard from the platforms above. The yard is surrounded by dingy barracks, a cesspool being the only sanitary facility. Many convicts don’t even bother to use it, relieving themselves in every corner. It’s marginally warmer than on the surface, at least no wind and snow, but breath still comes out in white puffs. Those who already received their servings huddle around burn barrels, coughing and sneezing.

“So, what do you make of the local welcoming committee?” Jim says to Bones quietly.

“This huge guy threatening you and a beautiful lady coming to your rescue?” Bones whispers back. “Maybe a well-staged display, maybe not, who knows. One thing for sure: someone wants to do us in, and they have plenty opportunities here. You tell Spock?”

“What if somebody counts exactly on it?” Jim frowns and looks around, lest their neighbors eavesdrop. “What if somebody wants him to show up for us before he’s ready and thus start a war?”

Both fall silent for a while. Inmates of the mines are haggard, grimy, and bruised—fights must be frequent or the guards beat them. There are representatives of planets from all over the quadrant. Everyone here appears to be male, so how did Martia sneak in if the female level is separate? Besides, a girl in a male ward like this would have been mobbed, but she roamed about just fine.

“Gee, it’s in our best tradition, ended up in prison again,” Bones smirks, kicking a small rock.

“Yeah, like in the good old days,” Jim replies.

“God, Jim, I still can’t wrap my head around it,” Bones says, the glint in his eyes dimming as his smile fades. “Gorkon’s dead, poor devil, and I couldn’t help him.”

“There wasn’t much you could do, Bones,” Jim touches his elbow. “I still hear his last words. Don’t let it end this way. There are Klingons who genuinely wish to make peace.”

“Our attorney was quite earnest defending us,” Bones nods.

“Yeah, it’s wrong to tar the whole species with the same brush,” Jim says and sighs. “How could I forget that.”

“We’ve been on the opposite sides of the barricades for too long,” Bones murmurs.

Finally, they get to the synthesizer. It produces reeking brown sludge into a small disposable bowl when you press your hand to a biometric scanner. One bowl per person, and the only other option is water.

“What the hell is this concoction,” Bones wrinkles his nose, stepping aside.

“At least it’s hot,” Jim shrugs.

Despite being ravenous, he has no wish to consume this. It’s better than starving, though.

“Let’s go closer to the fire, Bones, you’re shivering,” Jim ushers Bones to the nearest burn barrel.

The people around it scowl at them, but make room.

“Cheers,” Bones holds up his bowl like a glass of beer, Jim clinks his own with it, and they down the contents in one gulp before the smell and taste can trigger the gag reflex.

“Still joking, eh?” a hunched, one-eyed Tellarite croaks. “That will change soon.”

A low-pitched sound of the horn spreads throughout the yard. Guards start herding prisoners into one of the tunnels, whipping and clubbing those who move not fast enough. Jim and Bones follow the crowd into the dark. The tunnel leads to a large rusty caged elevator; a guard at the entrance gives prisoners primitive laser drills, pickaxes which belong in a history museum, and helmets with torches. Jim’s stomach flips as the elevator plummets down, the air in the shaft even more stale and foul than in the yard.

The elevator brings them to yet another tunnel, and there other prisoners are already at work, digging into permafrost.

“You’d better make the daily quota,” the guard at the elevator sneers, his finger on the disruptor trigger.

He doesn’t specify how much the daily quota is, though. Hoarse coughing is all around because helmets provide poor protection from dust. In addition to cold, it’s also damp, so Jim is chilled to the marrow. Bones is shivering pretty badly too as they walk deeper into the mine.

“This is goddamn ridiculous, heaps and heaps of rock need to be processed to get one small crystal,” Bones grumbles through chattering teeth.

“A tricoder would come in handy,” Jim replies, adjusting his scarf to cover his nose and mouth.

“I’m a doctor, not a miner,” Bones huffs and follows Jim’s example.

“If memory serves, traker accumulation indicates dilithium deposits,” Jim says.

He stops to examine the rocky wall more closely, then chips off a fragment with the pickaxe. Yeah, there it is, traker.

“Did your hubby make you sit through a geology lecture with him or something?” Bones raises his eyebrows.

“Actually, the lecture was quite educational,” Jim switches to the laser drill. “But we were in the last row and kissed more than listened.”

“Too much information,” Bones grimaces.

Together they continue to dig in and about half an hour later luck out: several dilithium crystals emerge on the surface. As hours drag on, manual labor absorbs their concentration, so they don’t talk. Spock’s energy is pouring through the bond, supporting Jim; there’s intense thinking coupled with physical exertion on the other side. The more time passes, the more Jim feels it pushes Spock to the limit of his endurance.

_Spock._

_Yes, my Jim_. It seems like Spock dropped everything he was doing. _How are you, k’diwa? How is Doctor McCoy?_

 _Bones and I are okay, don’t worry,_ Jim sends him a calming wave. _Listen,_ _Spock, cut the lifeline for a while._

 _It is hardly reasonable given the circumstances you are in,_ Spock replies. Jim can actually feel him frown on the other side.

 _I’m fine, I’m telling you,_ Jim lets out an exasperated sigh. _Working out, diet here is also amazing. My stomach will get flat as it once was._

 _Your belly is perfect as it is,_ Spock counters indignantly.

Jim smiles into the scarf. _Anyway, keep your energy, at least until tomorrow. You need it. I’ll manage._

Sounds of heavy steps are getting closer and closer. Bones puts the drill aside and narrows his eyes.

_Shit, guards are coming._

_Be careful._

Four guards approach, two carrying a large sack, and two more playing with whips.

“Hand in your yield,” one of the guards growls.

Jim and Bones put all the crystals they’ve got into the sack. Apparently, it’s enough because the guards pass them by. The next three people are not so lucky, having found nothing after lunch. Howls, wails, sobbing spread and echo in the tunnel as the guards beat the three ruthlessly, strip them, and drag them to the elevator. No doubt they will be thrown outside to freeze, like the poor man earlier today, who was used as a demonstration of the prison rules for newcomers. Jim and Bones watch in horror—there’s no way to help. Meanwhile, other prisoners pick up the discarded clothes quickly; someone’s death means one more layer of furs against cold.

 

Spock finishes a part of coding he has been working on all night long. Warp signature modification is necessary to disguise the Enterprise as a Klingon ship in order to enter the Klingon space safely and retrieve Jim and the doctor. Spock does the programming while Scott and Uhura deal with the hardware. It would be much faster if Science and Engineering departments were involved at full capacity, but conspirators could sabotage everything, so until they are exposed, only the most trustworthy people can know the details of the rescue plan.

“That’s neat, Mister Spock,” Scott says, glancing at the screen over Spock’s shoulder. “Now we needa test it.”

“I shall leave it to you then,” Spock rises from the computer console.

“Get some sleep, sir,” Scott smiles.

“There’s no time for that. The gravity boots haven’t been found yet,” Spock furrows his brow.

Uhura emerges from the wiring cabinet, a solderer in her hand.

“Permission to speak freely.”

“Granted,” Spock says.

“Spock, I’m telling you this not as an officer, but as a friend,” Uhura gazes at him sternly. “You were here when we left yesterday night, you were here when we came back in the morning. You must rest, for Jim, and for the doc too. If you don’t figure out how to free them, no one will.”

“Your concern is appreciated, Nyota,” Spock murmurs and heads out of the Engineering.

It’s impossible to rest while there is no progress in the investigation. If only Spock had insisted and gone to Kronos One instead of Jim, alone, having ordered the doctor to stay on the Enterprise as well. Fatigue is heavy on Spock’s shoulders. He returns to the quarters briefly—to have breakfast and perform morning ablutions. Nutrition is necessary to replenish resources for Jim, so Spock eats despite having no appetite. His complexion looks sallow in the mirror as he brushes his teeth, applies beard suppressant, and washes up. Jim’s terry robe is hanging on the peg by the door. Spock buries his face in the soft fabric that carries his husband’s scent.

 

The next day Jim’s body hurts everywhere after overexertion. He’s still half asleep, and they’re in the mines again, no breakfast, no water, no nothing. Persisting hunger and thirst trigger bad memories. Bones is in a sullen mood too, wielding the drill without a word. If it wasn’t for the bond, for Spock’s constant support, this morning would’ve been a lot worse. Sharing your energy is very taxing—being a non-telepath, Jim could never last more than an hour at a time when their roles were reversed. He reaches out to Spock in a mental equivalent of a hug.

_Spock, seriously, cut the lifeline. I don’t want you to collapse._

_Jim_ , Spock clings to him, even more tired than he was last night. _Forgive me, this all is my fault. You and the doctor are there because of me._

_No, no, sweetheart, I don’t blame you. We’re here because of traitors on our ship._

Spock’s anger spikes, unbridled. _I will find who that is._

Something is off. Fully awake, Jim makes an effort to expand his perception at least for a few seconds...

_Jesus Christ,_ _Spock, you haven’t slept yet? I thought we’ve been over this already, you can’t abuse yourself like that! And don’t even start about the perks of being half-Vulcan. Go sleep immediately, Mister, that’s an order._

_I... I will, Jim._

_Now! I’m watching you._

Reluctantly, the flow of Spock’s energy stops, and in about ten minutes the bond becomes subdued. _There, love, don’t castigate yourself._ Spock has always been his own harshest judge, and no amount of persuasion could remedy that. Jim cleaves off another piece of rock then carefully shakes a dilithium crystal loose. Gotta get out of here.

“Well, the easiest way to the surface is working badly,” Jim puts the crystal in the pocket. “The problem is, they beat you half to death and take your clothes. Even if we could arrange clothes—”

“Forget it, it’s the worst damn idea I heard from you over twenty-seven years,” Bones replies, his voice raspy.

He wasn’t this pale yesterday, and his eyes are bloodshot when he glances at Jim.

“Bones, what’s wrong?” Jim asks, alarmed.

“Seems like I’ve got Denebian flu,” Bones props himself against the wall.

“You were shivering yesterday,” Jim touches his forehead—it’s clammy with cold sweat.

“I wish they didn’t confiscate my medikit,” Bones sighs. “I had namaxine there.”

“Quit yammering!” a guard snarls, cracking his whip.

“My friend needs medical help,” Jim snaps back.

“I can cure him with my distruptor,” the guard sneers. “Get to work!”

 

Ensign Cox brings a pan to replace the one Valeris vaporized and carefully puts the dough into it. Spock paces along the galley. The gravity boots still haven’t been located, and time is ticking away. Doctor McCoy is sick, his condition worsening without treatment, Jim is strained to the limit by overworking—their chances of escape are getting lower and lower. Spock straightens his back and sends more energy through the bond.

Lieutenant Marquez accidentally trips over an empty Romulan ale bottle while searching refuse. Spock furrows his brow. Romulan ale. An alcoholic beverage illegal due to its highly inebriating qualities and lasting adverse aftereffects on many species, even such resilient ones as Klingons. The Chancellor’s retinue was effectively incapacitated by hangover and zero gravity, so they failed to offer any resistance to the assassins. Most of the Enterprise bridge crew was out of shape the morning after which allowed the saboteur to plant the subroutine into the system without being noticed. Additionally, during the trial Doctor McCoy was accused of incompetence induced by intoxication. And who suggested serving Romulan ale at dinner in the first place? Spock dashes off to the bridge.

“Captain on the bridge,” Valeris announces when Spock enters.

“Lieutenant, walk with me,” Spock says.

Her eyes widen slightly, but otherwise her face doesn’t betray any emotions.

The turbolift brings them a level lower; Valeris’s bearing is calm and confident as she follows Spock into the officer’s lounge.

“Who authorized supplying Romulan ale onboard?” Spock addresses her without preamble.

“Admiral Cartwright, sir,” Valeris says tonelessly. “His present was to convey wishes of good luck on this challenging mission.”

“How illogical,” Spock raises an eyebrow.

“Humans often are,” Valeris tilts her head to the side a little.

“However, it was you who suggested serving this extremely intoxicating drink at a challenging diplomatic function. For what purpose?” Spock presses on.

“To appease Klingon tastes and make them more pliable. Captain Kirk agreed with my reasoning,” Valeris meets his gaze with seeming confusion. “If you had any objections, sir, why did you not make them known at the time?”

Spock clamps down the rising ire. Is she so self-assured that she keeps laughing at him or is he jumping to conclusions?

“That will be all, Lieutenant.”

Later in his study he analyzes a simulation Valeris wrote in her final year at the Academy. Step by step it unfolds in a way that bears resemblance to the saboteur’s subroutine. It still doesn’t prove anything. Is it possible that she is one of the conspirators? Was he so blindsided by her academic achievements that he failed to see her character?

By the end of the day Bones can barely stand, his breathing shallow. Despite his protests Jim gave him his scarf and wooly vest to keep him warmer. Jim would have given him the coat too, but Bones refused flatly.

“Bones, have a break, we’re almost done,” Jim takes the drill out of his hands.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” Bones murmurs, his voice barely audible. “You should make an escape plan for yourself, don’t count on me.”

“Nonsense,” Jim says. “After work, we’ll try to find medication for you, there’s got to be some in this goddamn hole.”

A low rumbling noise comes from the depths of the mines; dust with small rocks fall from the ceiling, and everything around starts to shake. Jim snatches Bones by the arm just in time—a huge stone crashes down where Bones has been. Bigger and bigger rocks are falling, the whole tunnel is going to collapse. Coughing in the clouds of dust, Jim drags Bones to the elevator. People around overtake them, pushing, screaming, cursing. Guards jump into the elevator first, followed by prisoners. Jim and Bones manage to get in the moment before the elevator darts up.

 _Jim, Jim, are you in danger?_ Spock’s mental voice on the verge of panic pulses in Jim’s head.

 _There was a cave in,_ Jim replies hurriedly to reassure Spock. _But we’re not injured, talk to you later, hon, when things settle down._

 _I will wait_.

As soon as the elevator stops, everyone tumbles out and hurries to the safety of the courtyard. Before leaving, Jim pushes the button to send the elevator back for people remaining in the mines.

Guards in the yard count them as they emerge from the tunnel—in an hour it turns out that two thirds of the prisoners who worked in the cave in area survived. Klingons don’t bother to search through debris or help the injured. Prisoners are only allowed to have a portion of sludge for dinner and more water. Bones tries to do what he can to treat wounds, but he’s too weak.

“I’m glad you made it in one piece,” Martia joins Jim and Bones by the fire, having appeared out of nowhere as usual.

“Likewise,” Bones croaks.

“Hey,” Jim nods at her. “Good to see you alive and well.”

“It happens from time to time,” Martia puffs her cigar. “The tunnels often become unstable because of overmining.”

Her golden eyes shimmer as she studies McCoy’s face.

“I heard you needed this,” she takes out a medikit from the folds of her coat.

“Thank you,” Bones gasps, accepting it with trembling hands.

“You’re helping us again,” Jim mumbles, equally astonished.

“You’ll pay me back later,” Martia says and gets up gracefully.

In the barrack Bones falls asleep at once after a shot of namaxine. A draft from the mines is blowing through the holes in the walls. Jim squirms on his bunk. A couple of hours ago they could have been buried deep in the mines among those wretched souls. In such conditions no one really needs to hunt Bones and him down—they’ll die here anyway if they don’t escape. Spock is worried sick underneath his iron controls.

 _Spock, everything’s fine,_ Jim caresses him through the bond.

 _Jim,_ Spock meets him halfway. _I’m coming for you immediately. Warp signature modification is almost complete, it should do as it is._

 _No, don’t rush it. Even if you come tomorrow, we’re still stuck here—you can’t beam us out. But I have a hunch that soon there will be a chance._ Jim sends him mental images of Martia helping them both times. _She has absolutely zero reasons to do it. Someone wants us to be fit for escape, so that we were the bait. They don’t expect the Enterprise arrive under disguise._

 _I trust your instincts_ , Spock agrees reluctantly. _However, if there is no development, the day after tomorrow I will come with a landing party to retrieve you._

 

Pain in the knees causes so much discomfort it disrupts meditation. Usually his joints get a little stiff from kneeling on the stone, and Spock can ignore it, but stress must be taking toll on him. Spock replaces the stone with the meditation pillow Jim presented him on Christmas Eve and shifts from kneeling into a sitting position. Jim always takes care of him. The pain subsides; he doesn’t have to spend extra energy on blocking it. It’s better to send this energy to Jim.

After yesterday’s cave in the temptation to go and bring him home is too great, war or no war. Risking Jim’s and the doctor’s lives to such extent is unacceptable. Spock makes an effort to clear his mind from emotional thoughts and focus on analyzing the trial. There have to be more clues. In his mind’s eye the court rises again, Jim and Doctor McCoy standing in the center, jeered at.

“I’ve never trusted Klingons, and I never will. I can never forgive them for the death of my boy.”

This fragment from Jim’s personal log was the final incriminating evidence. To obtain it, not only a restricted access was required, but also knowing exactly where to look.

 _Jim_ , Spock touches the bond.

 _Yeah, Spock, what is it?_ Jim is tired, so tired working in the mines again.

 _Can you remember the circumstances of recording this fragment of your log?_ Spock shows him. 

 _Um..._ Jim flips through his memories, images flashing. _I was upset about the upcoming dinner with Klingons. Still mad at you. I left the bridge, went to the cargo bay, got our duffels, then returned to our quarters and started recording the log... and then Valeris came to tell me about the rendezvous..._

 _Valeris_ , Spock all but growls, studying one particular image carefully. _The doors didn’t close, stuck because of your duffel bag on the floor. She was there and heard it all!_

 

Clinking of shackle chains is distinct despite the loud snoring around—someone is crawling over the sleeping people. Jim and Bones pretend to be asleep too, their discussion interrupted mid-sentence. Clutching a stone in his fist, Jim is ready to fight whoever it may be. Was he so completely wrong, and someone is coming to kill them in their sleep? The moment the person is right beside him, Jim raises his hand to hit—

“Kirk?” the familiar low feminine voice whispers. “It’s me, Martia.”

Jim cranes his neck to find Martia staring at him.

“Listen,” she continues, “no one has ever escaped from Rura Penthe.”

“Except us,” Jim tries to lead her on.

“I know how to get outside the shield,” Martia says. Bingo!

“How do we fit in?” Jim ventures again.

“Getting outside the shield is easy,” Martia puts her hand on Jim’s chest and leans closer. “But after that it’s up to you to get us off the surface before we freeze. Can you?”

“It’s possible,” Jim gives an elusive reply.

“I can’t make it alone. You’re the likeliest candidate to come to this hellhole for months,” Martia leans closer still.

“Candidate for what?” Jim asks, bemused—being seduced by her is flattering but at the same time weird.

She covers Jim’s lips with hers; some twenty-five years ago Jim might even enjoy and kiss back, there were times when he used his charm to save the situation. That was before Spock and he got together. Now he musters all his willpower not to recoil. _Spock, forgive me, I have to._ The bond brings a begrudging consent.

“Go to lift seven in the morning for mining duty,” Martia says when she pulls back. “I’ll see you there. Don’t disappoint me.”

With that, she disappears in the darkness. Bones rises on his elbow, _my-god-how-could-you-you’re-a-married-man_ rolling off of him.

“What is it with you, anyway?” he cringes.

“Still think we’re finished?” Jim grins triumphantly.

“More than ever,” Bones grumbles, lying down.

Jim can’t stop grinning, as if he’s a kid again. At last, this is what he was waiting for. His hunch played out nicely, just like he thought. _Tomorrow, Spock_.

 

Their standard-issue double bed seems too wide without Jim. Spock is lying on his side, his arm outstretched to Jim’s half. Jim insisted that he rest, at least for an hour. Tomorrow Jim and the doctor are going to attempt an escape—Spock adjusted the sensors, so that the weakest signal of the viridium patch Jim wears could be traced. Modification of the Enterprise’s warp signature is finished; the Klingon outpost which will be on the way to Rura Penthe won’t identify them as a Federation ship. Now it’s only waiting, waiting, waiting. Whenever Jim is in danger, time acquires a frustrating tendency to stretch.

Chekov found Klingon blood in the transporter room—finally a substantial piece of evidence. It didn’t help much yet as the search was expanded to include crew’s uniforms. The intercom whistles.

“Valeris to Captain Spock.”

Spock rises, goes to the desk and presses the intercom button.

“Spock here.”

“Sir, we located the gravity boots,” Valeris’s measured cadence is laced with excitement. “Deck 5, room 1A204.”

“I shall be there momentarily. Out,” Spock switches off the intercom.

Well played, Lieutenant, putting a good face on a bad game, as the doctor would say. Spock fastens the clasp of his jacket and walks out of the quarters. As he heads to the turbolift, Chekov catches up with him.

“Mister Spock, I checked ze transporter logs,” Chekov says, panting. “Zey vere tampered viz on ze day of ze Chancellor’s assassination. No one could do zat except transporter room personnel and Chief Engineer.”

“Since Mister Scott is clear of suspicion, have you interrogated the transporter chief and his assistants?” Spock asks.

“Zat’s ze point,” Chekov nods. “Yeomen Burke and Samno are unaccounted for.”

“I believe now we know the owners of the uniforms. Find these men,” Spock says, allowing himself to hope.

 

Jim’s head is dizzy, as if he’s drunk on fresh cold air. He reels a little, having been cooped up in the stinky dungeons for four days. His arms and legs burn after climbing the precipitous mountain crevice, but Bones barely made it at all: the flu, malnourishment, strenuous work in the mines exhausted him almost to the point of collapse. If he has been lean, now he’s gaunt, his cheeks sunken, his gaze dull. The biting wind makes them cower as they follow the furry fellow Martia turned into. A chameloid, a mythical shapeshifting alien in flesh—fascinating, as Spock would say. That’s how she (?) roamed about prison wherever she wanted. The additional coats she gave them are thick and warm, a far cry from the rags they have been wearing. She must have gotten these coats from the guards she greeted while she was leading Jim and Bones to the hidden passageway in the wall. The guards turned their backs on them quite conveniently too.

 _Spock, we’re out_ , Jim sends through the bond. _In a couple of hours we’ll leave the shielded area, and you’ll have a very narrow margin of time to beam us up before the Klingons realize it’s the Enterprise._

 _Plotting course right now, my Jim,_ Spock replies, giving him more energy.

Bones plods along, unsteady on his feet. Jim pauses to wait for him and gently pats him on the arm when Bones comes up. Just a little, my friend, we’ll be home soon.

The way out of the beaming shield seems longer than it was to the prison four days ago. The suns are bright, white snow all around blinding. Bones slips, his legs give out, and he falls heavily with a grunt. Jim dashes to him and tries to pull him up, but Bones doesn’t move.

“Leave me,” he wheezes. “I’m finished.”

“No!” Jim gasps, clutching his arm. “Bones, I’m wearing a viridium patch, it’s invisible on my back. Spock slapped it there just before we went on Gorkon’s ship, so they have the exact coordinates.”

“Why, that cunning little Vulcan,” Bones smirks weakly.

“Come on! We’re in the clear,” Martia calls, her ringing voice an utter mismatch to her gruff appearance.

 

Course laid in for Rura Penthe, Spock struggles to appear calm, sitting in the captain’s chair. As the pull of the bond grows stronger, he has to restrain himself from going to the communications station to watch a tiny moving dot on the screen—the signal of Jim’s viridium patch.

Uhura did her part admirably, having spoken to the Klingon outpost in flawless Klingon. She prepared beforehand, complaining that her Klingon ‘grew rusty’, but everything went smoothly.

Jim is putting all his strength into crossing the icy desert, and Spock gives him as much energy as he can. Five minutes before arrival to the destination point Spock goes to the transporter room and orders the yeoman on duty to bring two mugs of hot tea and blankets. Chekov is there too, ready to free Jim and Doctor McCoy from the shackles with a laser cutter. Medical teams are on standby in sickbay.

 _Spock, we’re on the spot_ , Jim sends over.

 _ETA 4.2 minutes, Jim_ , Spock sends back, his time sense counting every second.

Yeoman Vittori brings the tea and blankets; Spock takes the steaming mugs from him. Everyone in the transporter room seems to be holding their breath.

 _Come on, Spock_ , Jim pleads.

 _1.5 minutes, Jim, we’re at maximum warp_ , Spock replies apologetically. _Hold on._

The bond starts to pulse, indicating physical exertion mixed with aggression—Jim is fighting someone there. Spock tightens his hold on the mugs. At last the ship jumps out of warp and slows down, then comes to a full stop with a slight jerk.

“Standard orbit assumed,” Scott reports via intercom from the bridge.

“Energize,” Spock gives a command to the transporter chief.

The transporter pads fill with humming blue light which forms into two scruffy figures. The bond surges up: Jim, Jim is here! Dirty, disheveled, dressed in discolored fur coats, Jim and Doctor McCoy hardly look like themselves. Their faces are drawn and stubbled, weather-beaten, dark circles lying under their eyes.

 _Jim!_ Spock’s heart clenches and skips a beat—

“Damn it! What the hell? Son of a...” Jim yells, stepping down from the transporter pad, then snaps at Spock, “couldn’t you have waited two seconds?”

“Captain?” Spock blinks in confusion, proffering him a mug of tea, while Chekov covers Jim with a blanket.

“He was just about to explain the whole thing,” Jim finishes his tirade, wrapping the blanket around himself.

“You vant to go back?” Chekov exclaims, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Absolutely not!” McCoy barks from under his own blanket and accepts the tea from Spock.

“It’s cold,” Jim rushes out of the transporter room, still hyped up on adrenalin.

 _Who was going to explain what?_ Spock follows him.

 _The prison commandant who arranged our escape was going to enlighten us, before killing, that is._ Jim takes a gulp from the mug.

“Keptin, vait!” Chekov hurries in their wake. “Ze shackles!”

Jim stops so abruptly that his tea spills, Spock bumps into him, and Chekov nearly trips over. McCoy rolls his eyes. Yeoman Vittori tries very hard to keep his face straight because laughing out loud at one’s superiors would be unwise. Chekov gets to his knees and cuts off the shackles first from Jim’s ankles then from the doctor’s. Meanwhile, the ship warps out, leaving Rura Penthe light-years behind—it was agreed that the Enterprise would temporarily stay in a quiet sector of the Klingon space until the further course of action is defined.

The remains of Jim’s adrenaline burn out quickly, bone-deep exhaustion emanating through the bond, so he doesn’t even object going to sickbay with Doctor McCoy instead of the bridge. The doctor’s complexion is ashen, and his posture is uncharacteristically stooped—illness hit him hard. This all is Spock’s doing.

 _Spock, don’t_ , Jim looks at Spock, taking his hand. _It’s over now. We’re both just glad to be back._

 _Welcome home, ashayam,_ Spock laces their fingers.

In sickbay two medical teams surround Jim and McCoy, scanning them, making a battery of tests, administering hypos. McCoy’s vitals are blaring red, but it doesn’t prevent him from taking charge of his own treatment.

“Get well soon, Bones,” Jim calls after him as McCoy is ushered into a separate ward.

“I’ll check on ya,” McCoy drawls, his voice cheerful: he returned to his domain.

Doctor Wong asks Jim to lie down on the biobed, so Jim discards the blanket and the grimy fur coat. Spock holds his hand during the whole examination, not noticing the medical personnel flurrying around. Conspiracy, Klingons, peace conference, everything can be postponed for a few hours. Jim gazes at him, smiling, and the bond thrives, filled with their happiness. Once all necessary readings are taken, a nurse brings lunch on a tray—Jim sits up and tucks in with gusto.

“The substance which is fed to prisoners there is _not_ food,” he grumbles between the bites. “If Klingons are to make a treaty with Federation, their penal facilities must meet common standards.”

“I shall ensure this requirement will be included in conditions,” Spock says softly.

He doesn’t care that he is transparent to others in his doting on his husband. To his relief, tests show that no significant damage is done to Jim’s health, and therefore Jim can be released from sickbay.

“Oh great,” Jim hops off the biobed. “I really need to take shower.”

They go straight to their quarters, and as soon as the doors close behind them, Spock pulls Jim into a tight hug. Under the stale smell of dust, sewage, and smoke there is the scent of his mate; nothing is more important than Jim in his arms.

“You hardly slept while I was away,” Jim whispers. “God, what do I do with you?”

“Stay safe,” Spock draws back just enough to look into his eyes. “I promise not to drag you into anything anymore.”

“That would be hella boring.”

Jim’s boyish grin is Spock’s undoing—Spock kisses him fiercely, possessively. _I won’t let anything happen to you_. Jim’s soft lips move against Spock’s, Spock claims them, reasserting that the right to kiss them is his and his only. Jim’s stubble prickles Spock’s skin; Spock rubs his palm against Jim’s cheek, it sends electrical charges along Spock’s nerves, making him tremble. Jim deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of Spock’s lips, then gently pushing in. _It’s alright, it’s alright, darling._ Their tongues slide against each other in a slow rhythm while reassurance Jim pours through the bond soothes Spock, anchors him. Jim tastes of chicken broth, mac-and-cheese, and something inherently _his_ , something Spock would recognize in a hundred years, something that sets Spock’s blood aflame, during the Time and always. Spock’s body starts to react in a predictable way, so Spock curbs the kindling desire, Jim requires rest. They savor the kiss a bit longer, and then just stand, holding each other. Jim puts his head on Spock’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

“Jim, you should wash and go to bed,” Spock says quietly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jim murmurs.

Spock unbuttons Jim’s jacket and helps Jim to take it off. Jim slides two extended fingers down Spock’s hand, pulling back reluctantly. As he saunters to the bathroom, removing his undershirt and unzipping his pants, it is painfully obvious that his forms are not so curvy anymore. Sometimes he expressed a wish to lose weight a little, but now that he has, it’s rather unsettling. Indeed, it is must be remedied, for Jim’s stout built signified good health and was immensely attractive.

“Don’t worry, _ashal-veh_ , I’ll get back in shape in no time,” Jim laughs from the bathroom.

The water starts running in the shower; Spock senses the exact moment Jim steps under the hot jets—the bond fills with Jim’s _aaaah_. Smiling to himself, Spock heads to the sleeping area to get Jim’s slippers and a fresh towel. When he brings them to the bathroom, the shower is full of steam, outlines of Jim’s naked body blurred behind the fogged up glass. It would be reasonable to wait for Jim outside, cuddle him in bed and perhaps sleep for two hours before returning to the search of the missing crewmen, but against his better judgment, Spock cannot take his eyes off.

_Join me._

The call of his mate ringing through the bond is impossible to resist, Spock undresses quickly and enters the shower stall. Jim is rinsing his hair, foam streaming down; for a moment Spock just drinks in the sight of him, wet and glistening, his skin tinged pink—the water is hotter than Jim usually prefers.

“I’m still cold,” Jim presses himself to Spock, wrapping his arms around Spock’s waist.

“I’ll warm you up, _k’diwa_ ,” Spock whispers in his ear and kisses the round shell.

Jim sighs, his contentment spreading through the bond. Their bodies are flush together, chest to chest, Jim’s soft stomach against Spock’s, their shafts and thighs touching. No meditation can grant the all-encompassing serenity that permeates Spock when he feels Jim’s sluggish Human heartbeat. Spock takes a sponge, pours some soap on it, and slides it along Jim’s back in circling motions. Jim grunts as Spock works the knots out of his tired muscles, rubbing and pushing carefully.

“Ngh, dig it in there, Mister Spock,” Jim croons when Spock finds a particularly sensitive spot.

Spock’s breath hitches as Jim’s shaft grows hard against his. The strict Vulcan controls fail: Spock’s length hardens too, despite Spock’s intentions just to take care of Jim. Jim smirks and kisses Spock’s neck, then sucks, teasing the small patch of skin with his tongue. Spock moans, shivering, his concentration ruined.

“Jim,” Spock chides, his voice husky. “Allow me to clean you.”

“Go ahead,” Jim draws back, laughing. “Actually, I should do something as well.”

He reaches out for the second sponge, but Spock bats his hand away. “No, the pleasure is all mine.”

Gazing at Spock tenderly, Jim caresses his cheek. Spock leans into the touch, stroking the back of Jim’s hand with two extended fingers. Jim scoops a blob of foam from his side and puts it on Spock’s nose. Spock smiles— _my husband, you are incorrigible_ —and proceeds with washing.

By the time Spock is on his knees, attending to Jim’s legs, Jim is fully hard, the foreskin retracted, water dripping from the head. Spock kisses the tip and flicks his tongue along the slit, relishing the taste of pre-ejaculate. Jim moans and slips his fingers through Spock’s wet strands, his thumb brushing the point of Spock’s ear. Spock covers Jim’s whole length with kisses, from the head to the base, and rubs his face against the coarse pubic hair, Jim’s musky scent making him burn. Their mutual desire courses through the bond between them, Spock’s own shaft is stiff and leaking with lubrication. Spock caresses Jim’s heavy testes, then strokes Jim’s buttocks with the foamy sponge in the other hand.

“Yeah,” Jim sighs as Spock drags the sponge along the cleft between the buttocks and rubs the tight ring of muscles carefully.

Spock wraps his lips around Jim’s shaft and starts to suck, taking him in deeply with practiced ease. Jim groans, his bliss flooding the bond; Spock gives himself completely to pleasuring his mate, memorizing every second, every minute sensation of Jim’s thick shaft against his tongue. Jim returned to him, having endured so much, alive and unharmed. These four days, eleven hours, and thirty-five minutes seemed like eternity.

 _My Jim_ , Spock runs his hand down Jim’s leg.

Jim’s consciousness touches Spock’s soothingly as Jim takes something from the shelf—Spock perceives his intention to prepare himself for intercourse. There is a barely audible humming which becomes muffled as Jim inserts the cleaning device inside. Spock pauses for a moment.

_Jim, let me bring you to the climax. We can do it when you’ve rested._

“Spock, we both need this,” Jim murmurs.

Of course it didn’t elude him, even though Spock tried; Jim is aware of that deep yearning to claim, to have physical reassurance—and wants the same. There is no logic in denying him. Jim lets out quiet gasps as the thin device gradually expands inside him, and Spock resumes sucking him off, adding to the stimulation. Jim moves the cleaner back and forth to the rhythm of Spock’s ministrations, his breathing ragged; the bond tells Spock when he is ready.

Spock releases Jim’s shaft and presses his lips to it, then rises from his knees. Jim kisses him roughly, demandingly, the bond sizzling with anticipation. Spock traces two extended fingers along Jim’s cheek, the strong line of his jaw, and down his neck. Jim turns around and arches his back, gripping the handles on the wall for purchase. He hisses with pleasure when Spock removes the cleaner and enters him slowly, his heat engulfing Spock, his body as welcoming as his mind is. Already stretched and slick, Jim sighs happily as Spock slides all the way in. Spock hugs him and nuzzles the back of his neck, unable to keep emotions in reign. It is such a blessing to be with him, to look into his eyes, to touch him, to hear him laugh. If this fades out of focus behind daily concerns and duties, life never fails to remind. Spock thrusts into Jim, holding him close, skin slapping against skin under rivulets of hot water. Their hoarse groans intertwine, pleasure and fragments of thoughts jumbled in the wide open bond. Their minds coalesce while their bodies join—

... _cherish thee, my Spock, my t’hy’la..._

This brings Spock over the edge, too soon, but he just can’t last. Pushing into Jim once more, he gasps as orgasm overtakes him, his seed filling Jim up. His penis is pulsing inside Jim, Jim is on the verge; Spock lowers his hand and gives Jim’s shaft a few tugs—Jim erupts, white spurts hitting the shower wall. They both are panting, weak at the knees as afterglow crashes down on them with fatigue. Spock pulls out gently, and Jim slumps against him, exhaling. Neither has any energy left to move.

“I’m beat,” Jim yawns.

“So am I,” Spock mumbles into his neck.

Jim stirs languidly to wash away the semen oozing out of him. Spock loosens the embrace, but doesn’t let go. When Jim is done, he switches off the water; they stagger out of the shower, dry each other off with the big towel and go to bed. Jim falls asleep as soon as he lies down, relaxed, sated, and completely worn out. Spooning him, Spock covers them both with a blanket and clasps their hands. Now that Jim is here with him, he is at peace at last—they will solve the case together, as they always do.

 

About six hours later a comm from Chekov brings them from their safe world back to reality: the bodies of two missing crewmen and the uniforms stained with Klingon blood were found. On the way to their location Jim rubs the remains of sleep from his eyes, his brain kicking in while Spock relates the latest details of the investigation. Chekov and Bones join them in the turbolift—thankfully, Bones recuperated enough for that. He looks rumpled, though, and there’s still stubble on his cheeks. Jim didn’t have time for grooming either.

Scotty intercepts them in the corridor, the uniforms in his arms. Excellent, one more piece of the puzzle falls into place. The sealed door opens, revealing two dead men lying on the floor, phaser burns on their foreheads: shot point blank. Bones goes into the room first to examine the bodies, Scotty and Chekov follow and crouch for a closer view. Jim and Spock stay standing in the doorframe.

“But the uniforms belong to these two men! Burke... and Samno!” Scotty frowns, peering at the crewmen’s faces.

“Not anymore,” Bones says. “Phaser on stun at close range.”

“First rule of assassination. Kill the assassins,” Jim glances at Spock, and Spock nods.

“Now we’re back to square one,” Scotty mutters grimly.

“Can I talk to you?” Jim takes Spock by the elbow and leads him away. “It seems like they were killed not long ago, as if the murderer held it off until the very last moment and did it only when the investigation started to give results.”

“I checked who assigned them to assist the transporter chief,” Spock replies, “so that they could use the transporter discreetly and delete entries from the logs. However, this alone is not a substantial proof.”

“We can lure her out,” Jim says. “Suppose they survived the stun and are ready to make statements? She’s bound to try again.”

“It’s possible,” Spock agrees, gazing at Jim with fondness, but his eyes are sad. He took Valeris’s treachery as his own failure as a mentor.

 _What is the point in whispering, by the way?_ Spock’s musings reach Jim. _You could have directed your thoughts at me._

“I missed hearing your voice,” Jim smiles.

They decide on a classic-style ambush and head to sickbay while Uhura announces ship-wide that yeomen Burke and Samno are very much alive. Lights dimmed to five percent, Jim and Spock lie on two neighboring biobeds, Bones waiting hidden in the darkness. Jim breathes evenly, curbing the spikes of adrenaline. He perceives through the bond Spock’s concentration and a wisp of melancholy, of hope beyond hope that the brilliant Vulcan alumna is innocent and someone else will show up.

Less than half an hour passes when the doors swish open, and quiet steps start to approach their biobeds. Whoever she chooses first, the plan is simple: the other apprehends her before she can do any harm, and Bones calls security. She passes Jim’s bed, well yeah, Spock has the honor of confronting her. Jim’s muscles are tense, he’s about to jump to Spock’s defense any moment now. Spock switches on the light above his bed, and the intensity of his cold anger as he faces Valeris overwhelms Jim. For the whole time they’ve known each other, Jim rarely witnessed such anger coming from him.

“You have to shoot,” Spock says.

His tone is flat, but his iron will holds down a storm.

 _Shoot? Are you out of your mind?_ Jim gives him a mental nudge, but Spock dismisses it. Valeris seems to be numb with shock, so Jim doesn’t intervene yet.

“If you are logical, you have to shoot,” Spock repeats, rising to his feet.

“I do not want to,” Valeris replies in a deceptively calm voice.

“What you want is irrelevant,” Spock snarls as he steps forward, his cold anger turning into boiling fury. “What you have chosen is at hand.”

Their gazes locked, Valeris backs away, mesmerized by raw emotions emanating from Spock. But she is pointing her phaser at his chest, and her grip is firm. Jim sits up abruptly to distract her—it works, she turns her head.

“I’d just as soon you didn’t,” Jim warns.

Valeris looks at Spock like cornered prey, her self-assured veneer breaks: there’s fear in her eyes. Spock slaps the phaser out of her hand so fiercely it flies across the ward.

Bones walks out of the shadows.

“The operation is over,” he says.

 

Spock forces himself to calm down, but his emotions are roiling. Not only did Valeris regain composure, she dared to throw at Jim his own words which were said after the meeting in HQ when he had been hurting and overreacted. She dared to mention Jim’s son. Jim sinks into the captain’s chair, torn by remorse, whereas Valeris stands proud, convinced in her superiority, challenging everyone on the bridge.

“Names, Lieutenant,” Jim demands wearily.

“I do not remember,” Valeris enunciates with contempt and turns her back on them.

Omissions, exaggerations, bending the truth are not unheard of on Vulcan, but during these four days Spock unwittingly gave her a master class. Such was the result of his desperate stalling for time while dealing with Starfleet Command. She learned the lesson well.

“A lie?” Spock bristles.

“A choice,” Valeris glances at him mockingly, replying in his manner.

“Spock,” Jim asks. _Talk to her. Do something._

Spock walks to Valeris slowly, steeling himself for what he is about to do. Talking will have no effect. He was so mistaken about her. The knowledge she obtained in the Academy, on the Enterprise, from him—all was used for treachery. Spock clutches Valeris by the arm and turns her roughly to face him. She seems indifferent, but it’s only on the surface. Hesitantly, he reaches out to her psi-points, hating the whole situation. It is morally wrong: there it is again, the fear in her wide open amber eyes. So young, especially by Vulcan standards. What if her actions were caused by delusions of youth? However, these actions already cost people lives, and there will be many more victims if she accomplishes her goal.

Valeris recoils from him, but he grabs her by the back of her head to steady her. Having realized that struggling is futile, she becomes very still. Spock puts his fingers on her face and initiates the meld.

_Her mind is orderly, like any Vulcan’s, but he is a stranger here. She cowers, sensing his rage, bitter disappointment, and telepathic strength._

_There’s fascination with Humans, but so unlike Spock’s own. How could a species which is weaker physically and mentally grow so influential in the galaxy? This mystery is to be unraveled, and Vulcans are to gain more power by means of Starfleet. Her mentor, the legendary half-Vulcan, is an enigma. His fame, his resurrection, his outrageous t’hy’la bond with a Human—Spock flinches._

_Sir, I plead with you, come to your senses. These creatures are inferior to us Vulcans. Klingons hold violence as a virtue, we passed this stage of development thousands of years ago._

_Klingons are now offering peace instead of perpetrating violence. Cast out your prejudice, Valeris._

_If you need the names, you’ll have to wrench them from me. Will you go this far?_

_Mere seconds elapsed, but Spock is already drained by the experience. There is no other way._ _He delves further, rummaging in the kaleidoscope of her memories._

“Admiral Cartwright,” Spock and Valeris say in unison as the image flashes.

“From Starfleet?” Chekov gasps in disbelief.

“Who else?” Jim urges.

“General... Chang,” they reply, another image rising on their mental landscape.

“Who else?” Jim presses on.

“Romulan Ambassador and others,” they say softly as Spock locates the necessary memories.

“Where is the peace conference?” Jim’s voice is more and more insistent. “Where is the peace conference?”

 _Spock_ _searches, sifting through every recent recollection... she incapacitates Burke and Samno with neck pinches and finishes them off with a phaser... she puts the gravity boots into a random crewman’s locker, too bad his feet didn’t fit... she activates the subroutine while no one is watching…_

_I have no wish to do this to you, please, Valeris, just show it!_

_I do not know, I can’t you see?_

Spock reinforces the meld with the other hand to make the process faster.

_...she receives instructions from Admiral Cartwright who overheard Kirk lashing out at Spock... further... further... her mind is like a house turned upside down, its order disrupted... it morphs into physical pain..._

Tears well up in Valeris’s eyes, and she starts to scream.

_She does not lie, there’s nothing about the conference... Feeling sick, Spock breaks the meld._

“She does not know,” he chokes up, disgusted with what he had to do _._

A gentle wave from Jim envelops him, helping to compartmentalize and regroup.

“Then we’re dead,” Scott exclaims.

Valeris’s lips tremble, her eyes full of unshed tears. Spock looks away in anguish. The most terrible thing is that hurting her could have been avoided, but realization came too late. He was affected by emotions, inevitably: he always is when the well-being of his bondmate is concerned.

“I’ve been dead before,” Spock says in a carefully level voice. “Contact Excelsior. She’ll have the coordinates.”

 

They managed to get to the peace conference just in time. After a failed attempt on the President’s life by Valeris’s accomplices, Camp Khitomer is buzzing like a disturbed beehive. Meeting Azetbur again, who succeeded her father on the post of the Klingon Chancellor, gave consolation and closure Jim didn’t expect. They both lost someone dear—nobody should ever go through the same, so working together they can make a difference.

The conspirators arrested, Bones, Uhura, Scotty, and Chekov beamed back to the ship, but Jim lingered planetside with Spock. Spock needs his own closure. They are standing in front of a transparent wall in a nondescript room. Azetbur agreed to arrange for them seeing Valeris in the pre-trial detention facility before the Enterprise departs. The door on the other side of the wall slides open, and Valeris enters the cell, pale, but still bearing herself with pride. Spock looks at her for long seconds in silence.

“I wish your talents were applied otherwise,” he murmurs at last.

“Wishing for what is not to be is illogical,” Valeris replies, her face a mask of indifference, yet there are notes of bitterness in her tone.

“Forcing the meld on you was the last and most despicable resort,” Spock says, pain palpable in his voice.

“We both fought what we believed in until the very end, sir. And we both paid for it,” Valeris shifts her gaze from Spock to Kirk and back.

There is no sign of repentance in her, only regretting the defeat.

“Guards!” she calls and walks to the door. Guards lead her away.

_As her mentor, I should have noticed and tried to persuade her._

Spock hangs his head low. Jim puts a hand on his shoulder, sending waves of reassurance through the bond.


	3. Epilogue

The grounds of the Vulcan Embassy are like a piece of ShiKahr brought to Earth, the stone garden quiet and majestic, shrouded in the yellow streetlight. If it wasn’t for the sleet and humidity, you could well imagine yourself on Vulcan. But it’s February in San Fran, and Jim opens an old-fashioned umbrella, having got out of the taxi. The weather is mild in comparison with Rura Penthe, of course.

The biometric security system recognizes him, and he is allowed into a secluded part of the garden where an ascetic domed building is hidden from casual onlookers. The bond leads him to the temple, radiating serenity for the first time after Spock had to interrogate Valeris. Jim relieved him from paperwork as soon as they were done with debriefs, so Spock took time off to spend a day in solitude and prayer. Before dawn Spock’s lips touched Jim’s cheek lightly, and then Spock slipped out of bed. Now dusk has descended, marking the completion of _Kal Rekk._

When Jim steps up onto the porch, the heavy door creaks, and Spock appears from the arch, clad in his black meditation robe, a traditional cloth bag in hand. Jim holds the umbrella over them both and beams at him as their fingers meet in _ozh’esta_.

Spock’s gaze is warm, the tightness around his eyes gone. Praying did not undo what happened, but helped to come to terms with it, at least somehow.

“How was your day?” Spock asks as they walk to the taxi. “Very busy?”

“Oh, you didn’t miss out on anything,” Jim huffs. “Especially those tedious press conferences.”

“Thank you for sparing me this,” Spock says quietly.

“Anything you need, sweetheart,” Jim strokes the back of Spock’s hand.

They get into the aircar, and the self-driving taxi takes the familiar course. They lean into each other, enjoying the closeness. Bright illumination of the streets is blurred by the rainy streaks on the windows, life ebbing and flowing in the city, as if they haven’t been away. Above the clouds, up there, in orbit, their Silver Lady is being decommissioned.

“Well, as of tomorrow we’re officially retired,” Jim doesn’t quite sigh. “You can sign the forms at home.”

“You don’t have to leave Starfleet,” Spock replies, picking up his wistful mood.

“Nah, it won’t be the same without everyone,” Jim shakes his head. “Besides, you and I won’t be seeing each other much in this case.”

“Indeed,” Spock hugs him by the shoulders. “It is difficult to be parted from you even for a day.”

“Gotta move on,” Jim muses.

In about five minutes the taxi brings them to their condo—thankfully, it’s not that far from the Embassy. Jim is contemplating cooking something easy and fast for dinner, so when they exit the elevator, it’s a nice surprise to find an antigrav container from their favorite Italian restaurant waiting outside their apartment.

“I surmised neither of us would like to expend extra effort to cook in the evening,” Spock squeezes Jim’s hand.

“I love you,” Jim throws his arms around Spock’s neck and kisses him.

They let themselves in and change into home clothes; then Spock sets the table while Jim makes a fire in the fireplace. Jim senses through the bond that Spock is pleased seeing him in the wooly vest. It became one of Jim’s favorite items of clothing. Spock’s bag is on the armchair, slightly open, yellow velour peeking between the folds of fabric. It’s good to know his knees didn’t suffer during hours and hours of meditation.

Aromas of spiced tea, minestrone, and risotto are wafting in the air as they settle down by the crackling fire.

“Have you decided what you are going to do?” Spock asks, caressing Jim’s cheek.

“I dunno yet,” Jim catches Spock’s hand and kisses the palm. “Maybe traveling with you on your diplomatic missions will give me an idea.”

“My next assignment is on Qo’noS,” Spock raises his eyebrow.

“Why not?” Jim shrugs, grinning.

There is a saying that every ending is a new beginning. Spock’s new beginning is well-defined whereas Jim’s is still uncertain, but it doesn’t worry him. There’s one thing he’s sure of: he won’t lose his ground like he did after the end of the first five-year mission. This time Spock is at his side or he is at Spock’s—it doesn’t really matter. Together they can take on any challenges life dishes out. This time it’s gonna be different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and happy holidays!
> 
> More in this universe:
> 
> [My Husband, Attend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6211963/chapters/14231503) \- how they reunited after TMP and got married on Vulcan


End file.
